She nods. I give an abridged version of what transpired, and when I mention that Mr. Bartley wanted us to examine the Final Solution from the Nazi perspective, she reaches for Mom’s hand and grips it tightly. I explain what we said to Mr. Bartley, Principal McNeil, and the reporter, highlighting why we have wanted the debate canceled from the beginning. I don’t mention Grandpa or his stories.

Nana listens. Her free hand trembles against the table. She doesn’t ask any questions. I filter out the cruel comments online, the swastikas and hateful words plastered in our lockers. When I finish, she stares into her mug.

Mom tries to loosen Nana’s grip. “Ma, are you all right?”

Nana lets go of Mom’s hand, raises her head. Her eyelids are heavy. “You need to stop the debate. This assignment is evil, Cade. You have to stop it.”

I look helplessly at Mom.

“Ma. He’s working on it. It’ll be okay,” Dad says, trying to calm her down.

“No, it’s not okay. It’s never been okay.” Nana’s hand flutters to her heart, and it sends panic into mine. A tear trails down her cheek.

“Nana. I didn’t want to upset you.”

She shakes her head. “You have been nothing but a blessing to me and your grandpa.” Another tear tracks down her check. “Grandpa told me that he told you. Have you told them? Have you shared your grandpa’s stories?”

Hot chocolate spills onto the table as I set my mug down.

“What stories?” Mom says. Confusion flashes across her face.

“Your pa wanted to tell you, Mikayla, but I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t. You have to understand I only wanted to keep you safe, to keep us all safe. But Pa didn’t want to leave this world without someone besides me knowing his history. And when Cade asked…” She trails off.

Mom whispers, “But I asked.”

Nana pushes away from the table, braces herself as she stands. “I need to lie down.”

Mom wraps her arm around Nana’s shoulders.

“I’m fine. Don’t fuss. Come. We’ll talk in my room.”

Dad and I follow. As Nana gets into bed, my mind races through scenes from Grandpa’s stories. How much am I supposed to share?

Drawing her quilt over her lap, Nana says, “Mikayla, if you’re going to be upset with anyone, you should be upset with me. This is my fault.” She turns to me, pats a spot next to her, so I sit. “Cade, do you remember the story about the Jewish boy your grandpa saved?” I nod. “His name was Yankel.” Nana takes my hand, gives it a squeeze, urging me to continue.

“Yankel was one of Grandpa’s best friends. Grandpa told me that Yankel lived in the town closest to his family’s farm and that Yankel’s parents owned a bakery.”